


Facing Eastward

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, HP: EWE, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Violence, War, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Hermione, each injured and alone, are left behind as the final battle draws near. Is there healing to be found, here at the end of all things?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This work is intended to be a transformative commentary on the original. No copyright infringement intended. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  **Beta Reader:** The usual thanks go to my alpha and omega, my beta, eucalyptus, who deserves a gold medal for patience, good humor, and extraordinary insight. 
> 
> And, speaking of _patience_ , my deepest appreciation goes to the mods of Dramione-Remix 2012 for graciously agreeing to more than one extension, allowing me to take part in this incredibly rewarding fest.
> 
>  **A Dramione Remix of Faramir & Eowyn, _The Lord of the Rings_** _*Winner, Mod Choice and third place, Participant's Choice in Round Two of Dramione Remix, 2012*_
> 
>  
> 
> _* Please note, this story is DH-compliant until the final battle; Alternate Reality/Timeline commences and license is taken from there to get canon to play nice with the prompt. *_

With a hoarse yell, he flung what felt like the very last of his magic at the barrier, only to watch the spell disintegrate against it like a Gobstone sling-shot into the surface of the sun. He released a hollow laugh. The futility of his struggle was nearly comforting in its familiarity. 

It would be fitting if his magic met its end here; it was the end of everything else.

It had taken the last of his strength to command his legs to walk down the dark hallway, his arms feeling twice their weight as he hauled open the front door. The last of his willpower had been used up ignoring the taunts of Great-Aunt Wallburga’s portrait, though they still turned his stomach with their bile-filled shame as he closed the door behind him. His options had been exhausted days earlier, comically spent at the very moment he’d made his first real choice.

Draco heaved a great sigh, raising his head as it echoed against the silence. Beyond the ripple of the wards, down the steps of the townhouse and past the street that ran before it, Muggle London lay still under the enveloping mist. A grey sky reigned over the morning air with a perpetual chill, a constant reminder of the Dementors’ ever-growing numbers. The Dark Lord was out there, his power undiminished. He’d been on the run since the Battle of Hogwarts but he was not defeated, and the power of the Dark still held sway. 

Draco felt stranded here at the top of these steps, poised on the edge of the world, overlooking a land of death and decay.

He couldn’t stay here. There was nowhere else he would be safe, but it was not safety he was after. He would find no peace in the ‘protection’ afforded by the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix; nor would he sit still and await any judgment hanging over his head for crimes he’d been forced to commit. There was only death or imprisonment in his future, and now that he finally knew what it felt like to choose his own destiny, he knew which one to pick. 

Buzzing with the need to go, he wanted only to throw himself into the tide of history and achieve his end. Only then could he hope to be released from the path of humiliation and regret.

The thought renewed the urgency in his gut, igniting his magic to burst forth in an explosion of color that attacked the wards confining him to the townhouse. His assault was as frenzied and erratic as he’d shown in the great battle only days ago: his _Reducto_ rent the air with a crack; his _Confrigo_ whistled as it cut through the air toward its target; and his _Relashio_ exploded in an incredibly satisfying shower of sparks. Draco was struck then with the wild desire to unleash an even more satisfying stream of Fiendfyre, and the pounding of his blood egged him on as he raised his wand.

“Malfoy, stop. You’re on the wrong track.”

Her voice was soft, but it cut through the roar in his ears as good as if she’d screamed. Turning half-around, he saw her leaning in the doorway, dwarfed against the dark, ornately carved wood of the frame. Like a switch had been flipped, he could suddenly hear the noise of the world around him, and some small part of him registered surprise at the chirping of a bird in the distance. 

“Bugger off, Granger,” he said with a rather unconvincing level of spite. “You can’t keep me here. None of you has any authority.” What energy he’d harnessed to get him out the door had vanished, and he found himself out of breath and shivering in the cool air. 

But she wasn’t faring much better, by the look of her: Granger was paler and thinner than he’d ever seen her, and that doorframe was surely holding her up more than she’d care to admit. He didn’t know why she was here, so far from the action, or what had left her so weakened and diminished. He was unlikely to find out, as there wasn’t a lot of gossip in the empty halls of Grimmauld Place. The usual spark in her eyes was dimmed, replaced by tight concern, but a flint struck deep within them at his critical appraisal. She straightened then, mustering her dignity.

“No one’s keeping you here.”

“Oh, really? Then why the bloody hell can’t I get through these wards?”

She crossed her arms, looking perturbed. “You’re not under arrest; there are much bigger things to worry about right now than you. Besides, the Order isn’t the Ministry.”

“Realized that, have you?” he said with a sigh. “ _Something_ is keeping me from leaving. I demand to know.”

“It’s a magic you don’t understand,” she said deliberately. “And you can only hope to conquer something once you can name it.”

Her patronizing tone and pitying look turned the edges of Draco’s vision red. “How dare you... _you_ think I can’t understand—”

His immediate impulse was to wield the purity of his ancestry like a hammer. But his hackles had risen merely out of habit, and they just as soon deflated to indifference. There was nothing left of that illustrious line of Malfoys anyway (or Blacks, for that matter), and what the last of them had become... well, that was nothing to brag about. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d thought was so inferior about the woman before him either, and what did any of it matter now? 

Here the two of them were, broken and left behind like children, waiting for the end of the world.

At his immediate response, she’d leaned backward slightly, waiting for his attack, steeling herself against the onslaught with a purposely neutral expression. Though it didn’t come, her body was slow to relax, and Draco knew she would only be a hair’s breadth away from full alert at the slightest provocation. His shoulders slumped in exhausted surrender, he raised his eyebrows and met her look, deciding to just hear whatever she had to say and be done with it.

“Yes, well,” she said carefully, “I didn’t say you _couldn’t_ understand it, Malfoy – only that you didn’t... yet.”

With that, she very primly took her leave, walking back into the house with a slow, unsteady gait. She left the door open behind her, and Draco debated whether she’d done so as ridicule or invitation. He realized with a sigh that it was neither; it was an acknowledgement of fact. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He walked back in with heavy limbs, only to see her watching him from the entrance to the library. Turning to go in, she very pointedly left _that_ door ajar. The message was clear, but Draco couldn’t be bothered to follow. Dragging himself back up the stairs, he returned to his bedroom, the icy void inside him smothering the anger, the will, and the purpose that had taken him out the door.

He was clearly a prisoner here; it didn’t much matter who was the jailer.

  
**oOo**   


It only took two days before his curiosity won out. He’d wracked his brain of all the spells, wards, and enchantments that could construct barriers, but was forced to conclude that identifying the magic holding him here was going to take real research. Knowing the history and proclivities of this branch of the Black family, Draco guessed their library would be nearly as extensive as the one at Malfoy Manor, so it would surely hold the answers he needed.

It was what else he knew he’d find there that was the problem, but there was nothing for it. Dreading it with every step, he headed to the library, hoping the metaphorical tail between his legs would be easy to hide. 

True to form, Granger was sitting at one of the tables in the front, surrounded by stacks of books, head down, quill to parchment. He nearly shook his head to clear it of the overpowering déjà vu; minus the Hogwarts uniform, it was exactly the way he’d seen her countless times throughout school. The sight loosened his grip on something deep inside, making him feel something other than wind rushing through the emptiness. But then she raised her head to catch him staring and gave a small smile. Draco summoned a scowl and scurried to the back of the room to begin exploring. 

Every day for the next week went much the same, with Granger already spread out and deep in her work when he arrived in the dark, cavernous room shortly after breakfast, and each of them buried in their studies until supper. In the evenings, they both kept to themselves, reading in their rooms. They never spoke; tacit agreement between them seemed to hold that as for the best. 

Draco started with wards and their dismantling, thinking it was surely just a more complicated type he’d never encountered, but trip after trip back outside to battle against the thing showed this to be the wrong direction. Curses, jinxes, and ancient blood charms were the next logical step, but he couldn’t figure how the Black ancestral home could have an enchantment that could be altered to _limit_ the coming or going of a pure-blood. After all, the Order had been soundly thwarted by a portrait with a Permanent Sticking Charm; his money was on his forebears’ unyielding nature in the face of change. Each time he tried something against his invisible nemesis though, it responded in ways completely unlike anything his research foretold, and by a week later, he was running out of avenues for investigation.

As for Granger’s business, he couldn’t quite figure it. One day she’d have stacks of books on magical objects, the next, minerals and precious stones, followed the next by tome after tome on wizarding ancestry. He couldn’t discern any sort of theme or pattern to it, and he was struck more each day with the need to find out. The one thing that never varied (and which illuminated matters to him not at all) was an ancient, ornate edition of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, always open and within easy reach under the large brass lamp on her table. He took to making a circuitous route about the library and going on unnecessary trips out the door and back, just to get a chance to peek at her mess of books and paperwork. 

Thus, on one such journey, he spied the theme of the day: wand lore. It wasn’t until he’d made his turn toward the back of the room, however, that the pieces fell into place. The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Precious stones, magical objects... the history of wands. _The Tale of the Three Brothers_. 

Feeling as though he’d been doused by an ice-cold bucket of water, he stopped in his tracks. His legs, working of their own accord, pulled him to stand by Granger’s workspace. His eyes roved over the collage of words and figures and pictures, and the rest of her research suddenly coalesced to an obvious conclusion. His brain nearly burst with the force of the epiphany: the Deathly Hallows; Antioch Peverell; the Wand of Destiny.

The realization shocked him back to the room with a jolt, his heart pounding as though he’d just raced for and won the Snitch three times over. Suddenly remembering himself, he glanced quickly down at Granger. She was already watching him, her gaze steady.

“You think he has— Dumbledore’s wand... is it...?” Her look darkened to deadly serious, and he spoke the rest in not much more than a whisper. “The Dark Lord has... the _Elder Wand_?”

Crossing her arms, she nodded grimly.

“I’d thought it was just talk. I didn’t believe a bumbling fool like Dumbledore actually _had_ the thing. You mean to tell me, the Dark Lord’s out there, with this invincible wand, and they’re just... what? Trying to track him down to do battle with him? Its—” He laughed incredulously. “I thought you lot had a chance to beat him! The bloody Chosen One was going to _save us all_ , and now what?” he asked with a sneer.

Granger stood, taking a few steps toward him, crossing her arms stiffly. “Well, we don’t know for sure yet what—”

“You’re damn right you don’t know. You don’t have any idea what you’re up against. What he’ll do, what he’s capable of. And if he’s got a weapon such as that...” He shook his head, and a cynical laugh bubbled up out of the numb weight of sheer inevitability. “I’d thought maybe there was a chance I was facing Azkaban, but... total annihilation it is, then.”

She pursed her lips in annoyance before schooling her features, saying, “You’re right, Malfoy, we – I – don’t know anything for sure, but that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Forget it, Granger. Just be grateful you’ve been left behind and that you don’t have to charge off into that. As a matter of fact, you might as well let me out of here so I can join the fun, because it’s just my kind of cause, apparently – a lost one.”

That dig got to her, and she puffed herself up. “I told you, no one is keeping you here, Malfoy. Believe me, you’re not that important. What I was trying to say is that I have a theory that the wand isn’t working properly for Voldemort—”

The name seemed to hang in the air. 

Slowly, the world screeched and pushed itself into slow-motion, and a distant ringing filled his ears. _The Name had been spoken_. The Taboo had been activated. Everything within him seemed to freeze in horror, waiting. Then Draco’s world exploded in white light. 

Everything was lost to him under a wave of terror as the room spun. He heard a whimpering, high-pitched whinge, which he vaguely realized was himself. Instinctively, he covered his ears and dropped to the floor, keeping low, making himself as small and unnoticeable as possible for the arrival of the Death Eaters... the Snatchers... the Dark forces he _knew_ were hurtling toward them this very moment. He struggled to breathe as the memories took him.

_The Dark Lord arrives to inspect the great catch, the smile unnatural on his face, his eyes shimmering with feral glee as he stands over the trembling Professor Burbage... His Mum’s face tightens at the noise in the foyer, her soup spoon frozen on the way to her lips; Draco’s spoon still clutched in his own hand as he’s marched away by men in masks, and his aunt croons to her sister about the great honor he’s about to receive... Every muscle in his body strains to keep himself from running at the sight of them, dragged in by the Snatchers, beaten, bruised, and swollen, and his anger at them for being caught gives him purpose... Snape hissing ‘follow my lead’ makes no difference as they enter His lair, and he’s forced to watch his professor, mum and dad suffer for his failure before the wand is turned on him..._

The echo of memory sent the pain of the Cruciatius ripping through him as though it had just been cast, and the blackness at the edges of his world consumed him.

He woke to find himself in his bed. 

Well, not _his_ bed, he acknowledged. It was the same thought he had upon waking every day: _his_ bed was lush and pristinely kempt, the sheets soft, the bedding warm, the centuries-old frame priceless. This one, though it had surely been very fine and worth plenty at one time, was threadbare, scratched, and faded. It was the only bed he had now, but it was always jarring to return from dreams (or even nightmares) to his dark little cave of a room at Grimmauld Pl—

He sat up with a start, recalling in a flash all that had happened just before he’d blacked out. His hand scrabbled blindly for the wand on his side table as he scanned the room. Upon seeing movement in the shadows, he finally grasped the wood and aimed it confidently. His breath heavy, all of his senses were wide awake. 

A dainty clearing of the throat preceded Granger leaning forward into the light from the high-backed chair beside his bed. Her finger held the place in the book she’d been reading, her other hand raised in mock surrender, eyeing the wand aimed at her heart. Though his mind grasped that there was no danger, he was slow to lower it.

“It’s alright, Draco,” she said gently. “It’s only me.”

“What happened?” His head was splitting and his voice shook.

“You collapsed. Kreacher brought you up here, and Poppy came to examine you. You seem to be fine, but she left some Dreamless Sleep if you want it.” Her cheeks pinked and her expression was awash with remorse. “I’m sorry, Draco. I should have known that it could trigger you. I’m just so used to— It was thoughtless of me.”

The incongruity of Granger apologizing to him led him to finally drop his wand, and he shifted uncomfortably at the thought of what she must have witnessed. He didn’t know he still had pride to be damaged, but he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. “But, I don’t understand – why didn’t they come? The Taboo jinx breaks through all wards and protections. The very instant it’s spoken...”

“Not the Fidelius Charm. It’s impervious to magic such as the Taboo.” She took a breath as though choosing her next words carefully. “It’s a powerful, sentient enchantment that can only be breached according to its own rules.” 

Draco laid back heavily against his pillows, staring at the unraveling tassels of the bed hangings, his heartbeat gradually slowing. He felt trapped here, imprisoned, the need to go a constant itch under his skin. But now he felt a strange warmth in his belly besides. It started to melt away the hollowed-out place there, and it wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation. 

It was a palpable feeling of safety.

It struck him suddenly that the choice to live on or perish must indeed be his if no one was going to be able to get to him otherwise. Draco had dealt the Dark Lord a crushing blow that had precipitated his hasty retreat; it was rather remarkable to be so safe from his reach, given that the Dark Lord had not only the Elder Wand but quite a bone to pick with him. He’d be damned if that wasn’t the first time in a long time that he’d felt _that_.

But then, he’d just found relief at seeing a member of the Order of the Phoenix keeping watch over him as he slept – the world had turned upside-down in more ways than one.

“Well, I...” She fidgeted with the book in her lap before closing it with a decisive snap and getting to her feet. “I’ll leave you to rest.” 

As she walked out, he noted that her strength and color seemed to have returned in the past week, and a few more pounds were filling out her figure. He found himself strangely pleased at the sight of it; weakness didn’t look good on Granger. No sooner had she pulled the door shut than she opened it, sticking her head back in, awkward and uncertain. It was girly in a way Draco had never seen on her, and he found it oddly becoming.

“I’ll send Kreacher up with some soup. If you need anything, I’m just one floor down.” 

But then, perhaps he was just delirious from hunger.

Later, as he went back over all she’d said, a phrase from her explanation got stuck in his mind, repeating until something elusive clicked finally into place. 

He groaned. “Of _course_.”

How blatant, how right-under-his-nose it had been all this while. He’d have thought all that time wasted if he’d had anything else to do.

  


**oOo**  


Granger looked up as he dropped a pile of books upon the table with a dramatic thump and took a seat opposite. After examining the titles in the stack, she sniffed and met his gaze guilelessly, unafraid of the perturbed raise of his brow. She broke the stare first as he pulled The Fascinations of the Fidelius by Alasdair MacFusty from the pile, and he caught her gentle smile as she turned back to her work. He glared hard at the side of her face, watching her cheek flush.

“You couldn’t have just given me a _hint_?” he said, more snappishly than he felt.

“You could have asked.”

“Would you have told me if I had?”

She looked up, twirling her quill as she pondered it for far longer than he thought the question merited before saying loftily, “There’s a school of thought – in Eastern philosophy in particular – that holds no knowledge should be imparted until requested; no one is ready for any answer until they’re capable of forming the question.”

His glare intensified, and this time he meant it.

“You know, ‘when the student is ready, the teacher will come...’?” She shrugged. “It’s an expression, Malfoy.”

“Is it? Well, it’s the single most patronizing thing I’ve ever heard. And that includes years and years of experience with Professor Snape.” 

He said it so unthinkingly that it shocked him, and he blinked down at the book in his hand without seeing for a long moment. His mentor and protector was gone, his end hard and unjust. Severus Snape was not someone to be mentioned casually, if at all. Draco had forgotten himself... what little he knew of himself anymore. 

“Then I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said simply, returning to the papers in front of her.

Leave it to Granger to interrupt a perfectly fine self-flagellation. Grateful for the sentiment and glad to let the moment pass, Draco took deep breaths until the image of a gashed throat and splatters of blood against a rough wooden floor faded from his mind’s eye. Once the words in the book he held ceased to be a jumble of letters, he began to read. He immersed himself in the companionable silence, learning far more than one man ought to aspire to know about the Fidelius Charm. 

Having lived his whole life to that point without knowing that it had been invented by Benedictus Viridian (to keep the neighbors from finding the cellar where he stored his prize-winning rhubarb chutney), he felt his life was none the richer for it now. It was fascinating to find out how a secret was dispersed in the event of the original Keeper’s death; assuming it had been Dumbledore, the members of the Order were all Keepers of Grimmauld Place now, a fact which he struggled to find some use for. A darker discovery was made, however, in An Anecdotal History of the Fidelius, where in the back pages, Sirius Black had written his own addendum, scribbling furiously his account of “The Traitor, Peter Pettigrew,” such that the anger and pain of his scratchings burned on the page. But it was hours later, as high tea sat cooling and abandoned, that he found what he was looking for (in the last book, _of course_ ). 

He had to hand it to Granger – she could not have given this to him. For this answer, he wouldn’t have even known how to begin formulating the question. He closed the book and set it on the table in front of him, knowing without looking that she’d be watching him, waiting. Taking a deep breath, he raised his head and met her narrowed gaze from across the table. There was concern in it, but calculation also; she didn’t have all of the answers either.

“So... what? To leave this place, I’ll have to take some sort of pledge of fealty to the Order, is that it?”

“No, no...” she said with a breathy laugh, waving away the question as nonsense. “The spell comes from the Latin ‘fidelis,’ meaning ‘faithful.’ People generally take it to mean loyal and devoted, and then follow that to mean faithful to a cause, as anyone must be to use the charm to protect something they hold dear.”

Draco crossed his arms and said tightly, “I well remember introductory Latin, thank you.” 

She was too deep in the academic thrill to be affected by his tone. “But what people forget is that the obscure, obsolete meaning of the word ‘faithful’ is... _full of faith_.’ The charm works because the secret is encased in the soul of the loyal, and what is hidden is revealed to anyone trusted to share it.” She paused, looked down at her hands, and when she looked back up, she was wearing her most tactful expression. “The spell only recognizes those of like mind. Those... full of faith.”

His confusion must have shown, because she dropped the lecturing tone and said carefully, “Months ago, while Ron, Harry and I were... traveling on our own, we were discovered while on a... _mission_ at the Ministry—”

“Yes, yes, I heard all about that little adventure of yours, Granger. I even had the pleasure of being present for Yaxley’s punishment for letting you lot get away, so just get to the point.”

She pursed her lips and huffed, though her expression was serious. “That _is_ the point, Malfoy. Yaxley chased us, grabbed hold of me just as we Disapparated, and I couldn’t shake him loose until we’d touched down just outside.” She pointed out in the direction of the front entrance. “Right on the front steps there, just inside the charm’s boundary. I’d presumed he got a look at the door – the number, and maybe the surroundings – and thought that meant I’d unwittingly revealed the secret. As one of its Keepers, that would mean I’d allowed him entrance. We Disapparated immediately to somewhere safe and didn’t return until, well... until after the battle.

“As you can see, he wasn’t given the secret. This place isn’t crawling with Death Eaters, and it’s just as safe as it’s always been. Yaxley was brought, _carried_ into the charm and saw the building without having its location _revealed_ to him. So even though he knew he was in view of a safehouse, he couldn’t see it or enter it, and he knew he wouldn’t find it again once he left. The same as... well, just as you were brought in, when you were Apparated here, unconscious. 

“But you were given the name of the place by a Secret Keeper when you awoke inside, so you know where you are. Were you to leave, you would not find your way back unless it was revealed to you properly. You’re snared in the charm’s web, caught between one to whom it’s been revealed and one who stands on the other side of it, seeing nothing.”

She sat back, waiting to see if he’d followed her the rest of the way, and Draco swallowed it all with what dignity he could muster. He was ready to ask the question now, because he already knew the answer.

“So,” he asked in his most perfunctory manner. “Why could Yaxley leave when I can’t?” 

“Yaxley was loyal. Not to the Order, not to the cause for which the Fidelius Charm had been erected – but he was devoted to the Dark Lord. He _believed_ in something. So, when he stumbled to back out of the void in which he’d found himself, the Fidelius recognized that fervent, faithful spirit, and... let him pass through.”

The words hung heavily in the silence while Draco’s newborn feeling of autonomy, of heading the charge of his own destiny, of _choice_ , died a painful death. It left nothing but cold in its wake. 

He forced a laugh. “Right, then. Looks like I’ll be seeing the end of my days from within these walls, Granger.” His eyes burned into hers, daring her to contradict him. 

But Gryffindors took to a dare like moth to a flame, so she didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I don’t _believe_ that, Draco.”

He sighed. She was too easy, too predictable. “I don’t give a bloody fuck what you believe. It’s none of your concern.” He stood to go, and she followed, facing off with him across the table.

“The Draco Malfoy I’ve known was proud and ambitious – to a fault, sure – but I don’t think all that braggadocio has gone for good. You’d just throw away a lifetime of pure-blood pride, Malfoy? All of your ideals for ‘upholding and protecting the world you inherited from being _taken over_ by filthy Mudbloods?’ What happened to that?” 

It was a direct quote from him, and her righteous anger belied the hurt underneath. It was humiliating to have to make this confession, but he had to admit, the woman before him deserved to hear it more than anyone. 

“It was killed, Granger. By a crazed _half-blood_ who has no sense of loyalty, who sends kids to do his dirty work, and who kills indiscriminately: pure-bloods as easily as half-bloods, as easily as—”

He very nearly used the word. It was habit, but he didn’t want to wound her anymore. Her nostrils flared, knowing, but he couldn’t be sorry about it now. 

“It was impossible to keep trusting and admiring the people who trusted and admired such a man, impossible to not see how the other side’s strategies and tactics were vastly superior, especially when the Darkest wizards were outwitted, time after time, by _kids_.” 

He took a breath to steady himself and looked her in the eye. She was grudgingly accepting, still a little skeptical, but that was good enough and really the best he could have hoped for. 

“Then why not fight against them? If you oppose everything they stand for, you can do something to make a difference.”

_Flashes of a black-haired boy’s nose crunching under his boot... a writhing, retching body and screams that tear through the parlor... the mercy in kind, blue eyes and a chance he did not take_.

He laughed hollowly. “And join up with your lot? I don’t think I’d be welcomed with open arms.” He noticed her about to make a token argument to refute that but pressed on. “Besides, how do you fight against something... when you’re not _for_ something else?”

“Then what of vengeance?” she said, with such pity in her eyes he had to look away. “For your parents?”

_Flashes of white, flowing hair spilling over hardwood floor... the sickening thud of a body falling lifeless to the ground... dark eyes filled with madness... the death of the true believer_.

“It’s done,” he said coldly.

She flinched at his tone but remained earnest. “You have a place in this world, Draco, a history. You’re a Slytherin. What about your life, your friends?

_Flashes of monstrous flames and smoke-choked screams... flesh sliding from a slippery grip into the abyss... the pool of blood that shrouded a senseless, lonely end... the living death of lost hope_.

“Dead. I don’t have anywhere to go, Granger. I was trying to get out of here to see which side could get to me first. I figured either one would like a crack at me.” 

Granger stood staring at him with eyes so wide and innocent, he wondered how she could be the same person he’d seen endure under his aunt’s wand, the warrior with years and years of fighting under her belt. He suddenly felt sorry for disappointing her so, for not being able to live up to her view of the world. 

For the sake of explanation and by way of apology, he pulled the wand from his sleeve and reached for an empty cup from the abandoned tea service. He placed the tip of the wood to his temple and pulled a long, silvery strand of memory from deep within with a shudder. Flicking it into the flower-speckled porcelain, he unceremoniously held it out as offering.

“Here, watch this. Then you can tell me what I have left,” he said, not unkindly. He pressed it into her hand and she looked inside it with untamed wonder.

With that, he left the library for the first time that day. Walking toward the stairs, he didn’t glance at the front door as usual, the lure of the outside world and freedom no longer tempting. As he slowly ascended the stairs, his life stretched out before him, with the inevitability of solitude, and the endless waiting, hoping, for the walls to crumble down around him.

As he lay down in what was surely now _his_ bed, he closed his eyes and practiced being content.


	2. Part Two

It was nearly dinner time, but Hermione never acknowledged basic, human needs when discovery beckoned. The cup in her hand held as much fascination to her as the whole of the library surrounding her.

Wasting no time, she hurried to the rear study where the Black Family had kept their Pensieve for generations. Pouring the contents of the teacup into the swirling liquid, she saw the long strand of memory break into three separate ones. Hermione paused only long enough to draw her wand and take a breath before immersing herself within. 

Landing in the midst of a hallway on one of the ground floors of Hogwarts, she saw dozens of children from all four houses hurrying frantically about. She’d been delivered to the cusp of the ‘Battle of Hogwarts,’ as it was already being called. Here was the last of the evacuation before the strike of midnight and Voldemort’s attack.

This she knew from what little she’d experienced herself that night. They’d forced her to take her leave after what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets – unwillingly, unavoidably, and with the anguish of a knight who had fallen from his steed before a great charge. For a moment, Hermione felt all of the shame and disappointment of her failure, then put it aside forcefully for the task at hand.

She found him in a flash of pale white speeding up the hallway. Crabbe and Goyle huffed to keep up, and she turned on her heel to follow. Out of habit, she wove in and out through the crush of people as though they weren’t merely memory. The three of them headed quickly up stairs and down halls as she followed confidently to the Room of Requirement. 

The three boys jerked back as they rounded the corner, seeing Harry and Ron as they entered the room. Draco was suddenly not quite as keen for it, but Crabbe suddenly became determined. Walking back and forth the requisite three times, they entered the Room of Hidden Things. 

Memories of traumatic or emotionally charged events often carried the feelings of the subject, and Hermione first felt Draco’s here like a wave crashing over her. 

Now that he was in this room, this hiding place, she could tell that to _hide_ was the only reason he’d come, and he’d brought his friends along for their safety. The presence of his arch-nemesis was a complication he cynically accepted. He feared what was happening outside this room as much as what was about to happen within it, and Hermione felt him swallow his rage at losing his clean escape.

What followed then, Hermione had heard of in an almost offhanded way from Ron and Harry as they’d recounted it to her before they left. At the end of the long road they had traveled that year and amidst all the other drama of that night, it was almost a routine episode to the two of them. It was just the destruction of another Horcrux. 

To Draco, it was a singularly defining moment of his life, and she felt every ounce of it through the memory.

When Crabbe conjured the Fiendfyre, Draco was frantic trying to keep control of the situation. As Crabbe was lost quickly to the flames, Hermione could almost see his sudden flare of determination to survive. It transfixed her, and she followed as he dragged the unconscious Goyle up, up, up to the top of a stack of desks. But Draco was not superhuman, and his strength flagged there, the last of it channeled into his reach for rescue. 

Ron could neither pull the dead weight of Goyle onto his broom nor hold him there all by himself and still keep to the air. Egged on by Harry, he took three passes at it to try, cursing the Slytherins’ names all the while. But Ron’s last pass was too high and Draco’s grip slipped at the last moment. The fall of Goyle’s body into the sea of fire seemed to happen in slow-motion against the howl of Draco’s scream. 

If Harry hadn’t made a dive more daring than the world of Quidditch had ever seen, Draco would have followed his friend over. He was scrabbling down, reaching out futilely to the space where his friend had just been. Harry swooped in and hauled him forcibly over the back of the broom. The bristles of the broomstick caught fire as the blaze leapt to swipe at them, and the two mortal enemies shot away into the cloud of smoke.

Hermione closed her eyes then, waiting for the memory to carry her out of there. 

She opened them to find herself in the corridor outside. Harry and Ron were slumped against the wall, smoke-stained and winded. Draco was on his hands and knees, repeating the names of his friends over and over through choking coughs. 

“They’re dead,” Ron snapped. 

Hermione felt only a second of appalled indignation toward her friend’s insensitivity before the crushing load of Draco’s guilt and sorrow hit her. The memory morphed then, obscuring everything around her in a dizzying haze. 

She found herself back in the study, ejected from the Pensieve. The emotional trauma had been too much of a shock to Draco, and she’d expected the memory would be disjointed and fractured into pieces. Her impatience to get back filled her with a buzzing urgency. It was as though the Battle of Hogwarts was raging right now without her. She paused not even for breath this time before heading back in.

**oOo**

The next portion of the memory took Hermione to a different floor of Hogwarts than she’d left. Some time had passed, and Draco stood looking lost in a rubble-strewn corridor, keeping himself hidden from view. 

Looking about, she saw Ron at the end of the hallway, raging and striking out at anything and everything around him. Harry was bent-over, clutching at his forehead. Hermione froze at the sight of a great pile of glass and stone with Percy kneeling beside. She was drawn inexorably closer, knowing what she was headed for but unable to stop herself. 

She’d not yet experienced the fullness of her grief. Hearing the names spoken mournfully only cast an image, the shadow of something not quite real. Remus, Tonks, Colin... Fred. Seeing the blood and dust caked on the freckled face that had brought her so many years of laughter and not a little frustration, she let go of any semblance of denial in a rush of pain.

In her anguish, Hermione only vaguely registered Ron’s ranting promise to slay every Death Eater in his path. Harry’s lackluster attempt to keep him focused on their ultimate task fell on deaf ears. Ron sped off with Percy with a chilling war cry, and all felt lost and over for one frozen moment. 

Then emotion seemed to push through Draco’s shock, and Hermione turned to see him still hidden but with his eyes on Harry. He watched him resolutely pull himself together and disappear under his Invisibility Cloak. If you knew where to look, it was possible to see the tiniest bits of his shoes poking out at the bottom when he walked. Draco decided to follow him, awash with curiosity, but it was not only that.

He was like a cat without claws, unbalanced and vulnerable without the wand he’d lost in the fire. Draco had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Something desperate and feral made him cling to the person who had brought him back from the brink of death. He felt the rush of invincibility that came from overwhelming loss.

So he followed Harry out, and so followed Hermione. Down stairs and through corridors, across the entranceway and out onto the Hogwarts grounds, they dodged the fight that raged around them. It was as though there was a shield around Draco, as nothing touched him and no one disturbed his journey. He was like a ghost himself, trailing Harry’s invisible footsteps. 

At the Whomping Willow, Harry removed the cloak to freeze the tree and climb into the tunnel. Draco held back until he was a few minutes in, creeping along the passageway quietly so as not to give himself away. Eventually, he saw Harry crouched in the distance, a shaft of light from the room at the end of the passage lighting his face. 

Cold terror clutched at Draco’s heart as the distant but undeniable sound of Voldemort’s voice drifted down the tunnel to him. He strained to hear, and Hermione saw the very moment he realized the other voice belonged to Professor Snape. A need to know took hold of Draco then and he moved closer, no longer caring if Harry saw him. 

Harry startled at the scuff of his approach and aimed his wand, _Draco’s wand_. She felt the shot of fury that swept through Draco as he saw it, yearned for it. A frozen moment of confusion and surprise passed between the two of them, when a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. All was forgotten as they both scrambled to see in the room beyond.

Draco’s blood ran cold at the sight. The magical cage surrounding Voldemort’s great snake, Nagini, was made to encase Snape as well. The beast struck, and Voldemort turned his back on his faithful servant. 

As Snape crumpled to the ground, Voldemort sighed, expressed hollow regret and left.

The blur of confusion and shock marred the memory, and several moments passed by in flashes: Harry pushing into the room; him kneeling by the professor and holding a flask to his face; his expression as he paused in front of Draco with grim acknowledgement and respectful condolence. 

There was no longer any war between the two men. Neither posed any danger to the other, and Harry exited with a nod. 

Hermione walked around to get a good look at Draco as he kneeled beside the body. He slumped as though in defeat, but there was something wholly unlike sadness taking hold of him. A seething anger swelled and pulsed about him without focus at first. It first took aim at Voldemort, the ingrate who had never shown anything like loyalty and who killed without purpose or remorse. 

Then, to Hermione’s surprise, it transmuted itself to spiral toward Snape himself; it was the petulant fury of one abandoned. Snape had been his mentor and protector. The professor had guided Draco through his youth and adolescence, through the tunnels of Dark service. The student didn’t feel ready to walk alone, and his shoulders shook as a growling sob ripped from his chest. 

But it stopped as soon as it began. Draco’s head jerked to the side as he saw something on the floor, and Hermione craned her neck to see him reach out and pluck the wand from Snape’s dead hand. The last of Draco’s childhood fled at the contact as the unicorn-tail core recognized a like spirit. He felt buoyed, independent, powerful as the wave of magic shot up his arm. 

Just then, Voldemort’s voice rang out announcing his challenge to Harry, promising an hour’s truce to tend to the dead. Draco’s anger dissipated, and he was moved to pay tribute for Snape in return for this last, precious gift. The wand responded to him as his own. Casting confidently, he levitated the professor’s remains and gingerly directed them out of the opening and through the tunnel back as he came.

He marched confidently across the Hogwarts grounds with his cargo before him and ignored the curious looks and glares of those he passed. As they gathered their loved ones, taking them into the castle to accord them all the respect fitting a warrior lost in battle, so did Draco. He gave Snape pride of place and stature at the head of the room. There he lay in state on the dais where the head table had held the professors and headmasters for millennia, and Draco knelt by his side and kept watch.

A bounce of time pulled Hermione along through the memory, with snatches of moments in the space between. People approached Draco, to taunt or pay respects to the fallen. None were acknowledged. The memory spun and pushed forward, until Hermione found herself trailing a crush of people. Draco was following along at the back of a group as they moved out of the Great Hall onto the front steps. 

The sight that greeted her was one she’d expected, but she could never have prepared herself for it. The Dark Army gathered behind Voldemort... and Harry, _dead_ in the arms of the weeping Hagrid. Hermione’s heart raced and she strained for breath. It was crushing, the horror of every worst nightmare come true before her, and she felt despair the likes of which she’d never known.

But with a glance toward Draco, she realized with a start that it was not only her terror and anxiety she was feeling. A thumping fear had taken root in him. He’d _known_ deep down in his bones, along as the rest of the wizarding world, that Harry was indeed the Chosen One. He’d come to unconsciously accept – though outwardly cursing him all the while – that the Boy Who Lived was inexplicably indestructible.

Seeing Harry lifeless brought everything Draco ever thought he knew crashing down around him. He felt sure he’d taken all he could, and something in him snapped. Hermione could barely stand under the weight of their shared anguish as the wave of sorrow engulfed Draco. The world as he’d known it had vanished.

The savior was no more. The professors and students of Hogwarts were a crumbling mess of sorrow, and surely they were nothing without their hero. His parents were damned. A shot of revulsion and shame hit him as he laid eyes on his father, defeated and diminished. They’d made their choice, but there was no place for any of them in the new order that would commence with the Dark Lord’s victory. There would only be pain, humiliation, and certain death, sooner or later. His mother was looking at him, beseeching, some indecipherable message in the blue eyes that reached to him across the void. The love that bloomed in his chest at the sight of her wasn’t enough to convince him.

Something wholly foreign took him over, the crush of hopelessness washing everything else away. As though the memory could no longer sustain itself – the host rejecting the visitor through such fundamental change – Hermione was thrown from the Pensieve.

She blinked at the dark wood paneling of the study, the soft light, and the warmth from the fire in the hearth. A large part of her did not want to go back. She did not want to see Harry dead, pretend though it was, and she did not want to see anyone else die. 

Alas, seeing it was only part of it. It was bearing witness while powerless to do anything about it that was tearing her apart. As futile and useless as she’d felt in the weeks she’d been at Grimmauld Place, she felt it tenfold watching others fight valiantly and with purpose for the Light. As much as they all suffered, she envied them for having the chance to prove themselves. She resented that they had the opportunity to fulfill what should have been her destiny.

But Hermione’s pain was nothing. She’d been entrusted with something very valuable; the darkest part of Draco’s soul. She would bear it. She owed it to him.

**oOo**

The scene was the same as she’d left it, but the very air felt different. The ambient noise was hushed, like a radio turned down low in the background. The blood in Hermione’s veins ran cold. 

A calm had washed over Draco that left him nearly unrecognizable. He _knew_ that all was lost, and the exhilaration of the suicidal buoyed his spirit. 

So, when Neville stepped forward to rally the Light, to take Voldemort on himself, Draco took it for the last gasp of a dying beast. There was something so appealing in giving up and letting go, so he threw his lot in with Neville... and himself onto the pyre. 

As Neville’s wand flew through the air into Voldemort’s hand, Draco pushed through the crowd, casting _Protego_ to shield the Gryffindor. All action stilled and the silence was deafening as everyone tried to process what was happening. A high-pitched keen burst forth from Narcissa. Draco stood firm, shaking from head to toe, as Voldemort turned to his youngest Death Eater. 

“You dare to defy your master, young Malfoy?” he asked, sounding almost bored.

“The Malfoys—” he began, at little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat and pushed out, loudly, “The Malfoys are no longer your servants.”

Hermione gasped, a burst of admiration shooting through her.

Voldemort registered no reaction. The only movement amongst the crowd was Draco’s mother, being held back bodily by Lucius. Voldemort turned to look at them and they stilled, their faces white. When he turned back, a small smile twisted his lips.

“Such bravery,” Voldemort said icily. “Well, this will be instructive. Something to show everyone the respect to be accorded their new Lord.” 

He raised his wand, and for a moment, Hermione noted nothing but the cold sense of peace coming off of Draco. Raising his wand only as token defense, he stood still to take whatever came. 

But then, as though an explosion had gone off, everything happened at once. Harry came to life, springing up from the grass. Flinging himself between Voldemort and the rest, he cast a Shield Charm over Draco. 

Amongst the cries and cheers, the shock and confusion, Voldemort stood stunned for but a moment before letting loose with a roar of outrage that shook the windows. Immediately, he levitated Nagini from around his neck and encased him again in his protective cage. Hermione saw the look of pure frustration on Harry’s face as he saw the final Horcrux slip from his reach.

But she understood now. 

Harry had to protect Draco from Voldemort. They were brothers, adversaries whose paths were so intersected they were inextricably linked. He’d figured out the key role Draco played in this struggle; his defeat at the hands of Voldemort would mean the end of Harry’s hopes as well.

There was a long moment of confusion and things moved quickly as a great stampede came from the forest, forcing the crush of people inside the castle. Draco’s uncertainty kept him from being able to reach his parents before being swept up with it. He turned and twisted as he stumbled along, trying to catch sight of them. With a pang, Hermione felt his heart lift every time he heard his mother’s cry.

Then they were all in the Great Hall, and the last of the mighty battle had begun. Harry was running about, Disarming, Shielding, and trying to get a bead on Voldemort, who was evading him, keeping away from Harry with fear plainly on his face. 

Hermione turned back to Draco as she felt a rush of relief overwhelm her. He’d seen his parents and they him, and each cried out as they ran to each other. But a jet of green cut across between them. Two wails rose above the melee as Lucius fell to the ground, dead. Narcissa sank to her knees by his side, her face a mask of disbelief and horror. 

She froze when she heard her sister’s voice. 

“Here, Cissy. Check that one’s pulse. Maybe then you can learn the difference between dead and alive,” hissed Bellatrix, her eyes shining with madness. “But then, you already know how to tell, _don’t you_?” Her magic roiled and crackled in the air around her.

Turning to face her as she got to her feet, Narcissa flicked her gaze for just a moment to Draco, casting _Petrificus Totalus_ before he could shield himself from it. He stood helpless, furious, overcome with grief, and desperate to be of use. But the fight was not his, and the sisters commenced a dance that seemed to have begun long ago. 

The spells and curses flew with precision, their skills not only evenly matched but in perfect accord. They were two sides of the same coin, but they were not the same: they were beauty, both terrible and exquisite, the loyal servant and the devoted mother.

Bellatrix shrieked taunts and accusations from hurts long past, seeming wild to destroy. But Narcissa’s focus could never be fully on her opponent. Her attention flagged for but a moment as she saw a spell come too close to Draco out of the corner of her eye. Bellatrix took her advantage. _Sectumsempra_ sailed through the air, hitting Narcissa with such force that it blew her off her feet. She crumpled in a heap on the hardwood floor. 

“You love that boy best of all!” Bellatrix screamed, charging forward to stand over her sister as blood began to pour from the half-dozen wounds ripped open by the spell. “There’s nothing you love more than _him_?” 

Bellatrix continued to rage, but Hermione paid no attention to it. The spell was lifting from Draco as the blood drained from Narcissa, her magic grown too weak to hold him paralyzed. Hysterical, animalistic sobs tore from his chest as soon as he could master his own muscles. Regaining control, he stumbled toward the two women. 

Hermione was frantic suddenly, wanting to keep him from it, but could do nothing but watch. He walked with purpose, his wand raising to Bellatrix from behind. Her attention was focused completely on Narcissa as she bent low, screeching with injured fury into the dying woman’s ear. Without thinking about strategy or survival, Draco cast straight from the emotion tearing through his chest. 

His _Crucio_ hit Bellatrix in her leg, and her back bent in an extreme arch as she fell hard. Draco paid her no mind as he headed for his mother’s side. Narcissa’s face was ghostly white, paler than the color of the hair flowing against the dark wood of the floor. Only her deep blue eyes shone with color and life as she gazed up at her son. She struggled to speak, shudders wracking her slender frame as the warmth and strength left her.

Draco smiled gently and brushed his mother’s hair back from her face. He knew there was only one spell that could counteract _Sectumsempra_ , and only one man who knew it. That man was lying dead behind him. 

Hermione felt the last of the little boy he had been flee in the face of such hopelessness, gone from this world in the last moments of the woman who brought him into it. Looking deeply into his mother’s eyes, Draco’s face hardened into a resolute mask. He was done, ready. 

He’d only just stood and turned when a volley of Stinging Hexes from Bellatrix threw him off-balance. Trying to regain ground, he cast wildly. But she had decades of experience and the madness of blind faith on her side, and he was woefully overmatched. 

Dodging a _Stupefy_ coming fast on the heels of a _Confrigo_ that exploded at his feet, he walked straight into her _Crucio_ and collapsed. As he writhed on the ground, a scream seemed to come straight from his soul, anger and despair intermingling in his cry. 

And it didn’t stop. The wail reverberated as Hermione reeled, and the world of the memory swirled in blackness. Transported to when she’d been the one beneath Bellatrix’s wand, she sank to her knees, eyes closed, the hands over her ears useless to block out the pain. 

It was over long before she realized it. She opened her eyes cautiously to find the memory cleared and Bellatrix standing over Draco, his breathing shallow, seemingly unconscious. Bellatrix held her wand on him, but her attention was on Narcissa.

“Weak! Weak, you see?” she said, cackling with glee. She raised her hand to cast again but it hung in the air as she froze. “Cissy? Cissy!” she snapped angrily. Stopping abruptly, she stomped over to her sister.

“Cissy... Cissy... Cissy!” Crazed and befuddled, she continued to screech her name as she bent over her. A few seconds of silence preceded a childlike scream that shook the windows. She fell to her knees and grabbed her sister about the shoulders. Shock and grief blocked out everything as Bellatrix was lost, shaking her and screaming curses into her face one moment, holding her to her breast the next. 

But Narcissa was gone, and she heard none of it. 

Hermione was so transfixed by the sight, she started when she saw Draco move from the corner of her eye. She turned, shocked to find him on his knees. Sweating and trembling, bruised and stung, burned and broken, his wand was aimed at his aunt, steady and sure. 

She’d not felt Draco’s recovery from the curse. She’d not sensed his presence in the memory. She’d not registered his reaction to anything because he hadn’t had one. There was nothing but a void, an icy, vacant, dead place where his heart used to be. 

The curse, when it came, was coldly precise, and the bolt of green light exploded against Bellatrix’s dark robes, lighting her brilliantly. As she fell back, her sister’s hand was still in hers.

An inhuman yowling sounded from across the room, and Hermione turned to see that it was Voldemort. He’d felt the death of his most beloved and faithful, and he spun from where he’d finally faced-off with Harry. A cacophony of loud pops reverberated around the hall; the Death Eaters sensed the turning of the tide with the death of Bellatrix and Apparated in retreat. 

Draco stood to his full height to face his former master and tormentor and walked a few paces toward the center of the hall. 

Then he opened his arms wide, offering a clear shot as invitation. 

Hermione barely recognized the man standing there as the same boy she’d followed from the beginning of the memory. But this was also a far cry from the man she’d been with just earlier that day; _that_ man had a heart that beat within his chest. That man had a future. It mattered not at all that he’d yet to see it.

Voldemort did not raise the Elder Wand to strike quickly enough. A jet of red light sailed toward Draco. It came from his own hawthorn wand, from the magic of his greatest adversary, and it was directly aimed at that beating heart. 

Hermione stumbled back out of the Pensieve as though struck herself, her vision blurred as it adjusted to the light in the rear study at Grimmauld Place. But she had more to adjust to than that. She’d known, in broad, general strokes, what had happened to Draco in the great battle, but seeing it and _feeling_ it for herself changed things. 

He’d ceased to be just a bully, a hollow caricature long ago, once she’d learned enough about people and life to know how bullies were _made_ and prejudice was taught. She’d felt sorry for him in sixth year, once she’d learned of how he’d been nothing but a cog in the machine, a weapon to injure his father. She’d gained a modicum of respect for him when they’d been brought to Malfoy Manor and he’d refused to identify them, and she’d seen even then how he’d ceased to have the stomach to fight with the Dark Army.

But now, having literally walked in his shoes, through the destruction of his world and the immolation of his faith, she saw the full person. And she felt like she owed him his legacy. For the first time since she’d herself awakened in this house, far from the battle she’d believed to be her destiny, she felt purpose. 

And being good enough for this purpose just might be... good enough.


	3. Part Three

He’d considered waiting for her. If he’d just posted himself in the study and greeted her once she’d returned from his memory, it would have been quick and painless. (Well, it would have been quick, at any rate.) But when he’d thought of her face with pity and castigation intermingled in those brown eyes, he’d been sick. Putting it off seemed to be the only thing to do, the only way he could breathe and hope to find any semblance of rest.

But as night turned into the next day, he wondered when she’d come to him. There wasn’t anyone else to talk to here, unless you counted Kreacher, and though Granger probably did, she would surely seek him out sooner or later. In the meantime, Draco came to the conclusion that if he was stuck in this place for the foreseeable future, he might as well take a look around.

On the way to the library every morning, he’d seen a shaft of light peeking through long curtains at the end of the hallway. They kept everything shrouded on that floor, to keep from waking the shrill portrait of the late Lady of the house. Before, his objective was to do his research, and the only light he’d been interested in was what came from the front door and beyond. But now this part of the house drew him, and he parted the dusty curtain to see the back garden through the grimy panes of glass. With a shudder of anticipation, he grasped one of the handles on the double French doors and pushed outside.

It was as grey and overcast as always outside, but it felt like the warmth of the sun was trying to beat its way through to him. He took a deep breath with satisfaction, looking around with curiosity. It was extraordinarily overgrown, but the wildness suited it. As a counter to the dark, staid interior, this had a danger to it, as though nature was daring anyone to even try to contain it.

Draco took a turn about it, feeling like as long as he could take a walk outside in this every day, it wouldn’t be too bad living here. As prisons went, it wasn’t that unpleasant, and it sure beat Azkaban. If his only crime was inhuman indifference, then he could live with that on his conscience with only the foliage to judge him. 

After about an hour of exploring, he sat on one of the crumbling benches, lying back with his legs straight out and crossed, his face pointed skyward. He stayed thus with his eyes closed until he felt Granger’s presence. Debating whether or not to just pretend to be asleep, he realized there was nothing for it. She was far too polite to wake him, and she was driving him crazy lingering there clumsily with positively no aptitude for stealth.

“What is it, Granger,” he said, opening one eye and turning his head to look at her.

Startled that he’d known she was there, she’d been turning to go when he caught her. There was that odd uncertainty from her again; strange though it looked on her, he found he liked it.

“I don’t want to interrupt...” She blushed as he raised an eyebrow and looked around. “Well, would you mind if I sat down?”

He pushed himself to sitting upright and gestured for her to take the seat next to him. She sat stiffly, feet flat, knees together, only turning slightly to hold out a phial containing his memory.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Draco,” she said softly as he took it from her hand. “I wanted to say... I’m sorry. Very sorry for your losses.”

This was worse than he’d thought it would be, this conversation. Looking at the swirl of silver in his hand brought to mind all she must have seen. Beyond having to talk about it with her, he was suddenly struck with all she’d know about him from now on. He didn’t think he could sit still to hear it right now – maybe in a week or two. 

Getting up abruptly, he said, “You’re welcome – thank you...” It was awkward, but so was the moment, and he was about to make a hasty departure when she spoke again.

“Draco, I wanted to ask you whether— Before he left, did Harry tell you... about your mum?” 

He turned automatically to face her, his stomach twisted with dread. “Yes. I heard all about how her heroism allowed Potter... and would have made it possible for—” He swallowed hard, shook his head, and pushed the rest out in a rush. “I knew she wasn’t for the Dark Lord’s victory, that she cared only about my safety. Everything would have worked out fine, according to plan, if I hadn’t bollocksed everything by stepping forward, by...” Pain, such that he’d been tamping down for days to keep from feeling, reared up within him, threatening to boil over.

“You don’t know that,” she said soothingly. “There could be any number of things that happened, and there are so many things we don’t know.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “For instance, if I’d been there, maybe things... maybe I could have kept things from getting out of control in the Room of Requirement. Maybe if I’d been able to keep Ron from—”

“But that’s my point, Granger, don’t you see? You know you could have made things better. Maybe one man can make a difference, but only the right man. There are people who are destined for... But when I try to _do_ anything...”

Granger’s eyes narrowed, that same calculating look on her face as she said cryptically, “Why do you think Harry showed himself once you were in danger? Why do you think he kept Vol- _You-Know-Who_ from attacking you?”

Draco was taken aback. “What do you mean, ‘why?’ It’s what he does. Potter rides to the rescue, whether you want it or not.”

She huffed a bit, pressing her lips together in annoyance she was trying hard to keep at bay. “Then, why do you think You-Know-Who killed Professor Snape? Why would he have a reason to do that?”

“It’s what _he_ does,” he said darkly. “There isn’t anything like ‘reason’ to any of his actions.”

“But there is,” she said, before looking away to collect her thoughts. She seemed to be wrestling with something, and it took her a moment to decide to press on. “You asked about You-Know-Who having the Elder Wand. He has it, but he doesn’t have full mastery of it. It should be making him invincible. It should be elevating his power far above that of other wizards. But it’s not. It’s only performing for him as well as his original wand, and while that’s impressive, it’s not what he was after. It’s not what the wand should be doing for him.

“The Elder Wand changes loyalty if its previous Master is defeated. Dumbledore defeated Grindlewald and possessed it until his own death, to be buried with it. You-Know-Who robbed his grave to take it from him, thinking that, plus the fact of Snape’s service to him, would make him its Master. But when it didn’t perform as he’d hoped, You-Know—” 

“Can you not just call him the Dark Lord? You sound like a child when—“

“No, I can _not_ call him that. He is nothing of the sort,” she said fiercely. 

Draco was shocked and not a little impressed. That Gryffindor bluster had always annoyed him, but he could suddenly see the appeal of never giving in, even when it was just in principle. All things being equal, and with nothing left but that, he guessed it wasn’t so silly to cling to. He sighed and gestured for her to continue, not having the vaguest idea why she was telling him all of this.

“As I was saying,” she continued with a toss of her hair, “You-Know-Who believed killing Snape, the one who had killed Dumbledore, would make him the Elder Wand’s Master.”

“But...? He should be then,” said Draco with a slight shrug.

Granger smiled, rather deviously. “Only if Snape had been the Master of the wand himself. But before Dumbledore was killed, he’d been Disarmed. He’d been _defeated_ before Snape even arrived.” She let the words hang in the air, her hard look pointed.

Draco’s head spun, and he shook his head as if to clear it. “But would that mean that... that I...?”

“You were made the Master of the Elder Wand, Draco,” she said softly. “ _But_... Harry took your wand when we escaped Malfoy Manor.”

It took a second for that to sink in, but when it did, he let loose with a great, full-bellied laugh. Of _course_. How silly of him to entertain any other notion than Potter’s total domination. “What is the point of all of this, Granger?” he said, more harshly than he’d meant.

“The point is... the research I’ve been doing has been to fully understand all of the Deathly Hallows, how they work, how their power and secrets are passed on. What we don’t know for sure, and what I’ve not been able to find, is whether merely taking the wand of the wizard who is Master of the Elder Wand is enough to do it. We don’t know if the Disarming has to be magical... and,” she said as tactfully as possible, “we don’t know whether there was an element of surrender to Harry getting the wands from you that night.” 

Considering it honestly, Draco wasn’t sure himself. He’d been terrified, he’d known that he had to defend himself and his family, but... he’d also been so tired and ready for it to all be over.

“So what I’m saying is that you could still indeed be the Master of the Elder Wand. Or, Harry could be its Master. The fact that You-Know-Who couldn’t attack him properly or end it all in the battle in the Great Hall, and the fact that he had to retreat and has been on the run since... seems to point in that direction.” She took a deep breath and stood. “But the fact of the matter is, we don’t know.”

There was a strange feeling in Draco’s chest, an excitement cycling rapidly and repeatedly to cynicism and back. He wished he didn’t know about this. He wished he’d known sooner. He wished he and the Elder Wand could have mowed-down the Dark Lord and the lot of the Death Eaters where they stood, only leaving his mum and dad, and that they could have run away. He wished there was still something in this world he wanted enough that could make any of it matter.

But Granger wasn’t finished, and as she spoke again, he was pulled back from his reverie.

“Draco. If you wanted to, at any moment, you could walk right out the front door, down those steps, and off into the world beyond. You could run off and find You-Know-Who and try your luck against the Elder Wand. You could find the Order and fight by Harry’s side. Or, you could try to take all of the power for your own, and do whatever you want. Because if what the Fidelius requires is faith... all it takes is for you to believe in _yourself_.”

With that, she turned and left him, amidst the wilds of the back garden and the walls fighting to contain it.

**oOo**

Again, it took him two days to seek her out. They’d kept to their own, private spheres; in a house that big, it wasn’t difficult. She’d continued in the library, and Draco, in his new-found haven of the back garden. 

Each day, the sky grew darker, the air became more thick and oppressive, and the cold chilled ever more to the bone. Everything felt caught on the side of a cliff, hanging by a rapidly fraying rope. Surely the world could not stay forever on the edge of darkness; there must be forward or back, and the waiting and the buzzing impatience for the inevitable was driving him mad.

Partly to keep him from dwelling on things he could not change (and that was nearly everything), he went to find her, and there she was, sitting at that very same table in the library where he’d left her days ago. As usual, she looked like she’d been expecting him. 

“So, you’re here to keep guard over me then, is that it?” When her face only twisted in confusion, he continued, “Is it why you were left behind – to keep an eye on me, to keep me from going off and wreaking havoc as the potential Master of the Elder Wand?” 

She rolled her eyes, and that was not at all what he’d expected. “I do wish you’d stop ascribing all kinds of wicked motives to everything around you. There are things in this world which have nothing to do with you.” She sighed and looked at him directly. “No. I’m not your jailer, your guardian, your nanny or anything like that, Draco.”

“Then what are you doing here? Why is one whole third of the sodding Golden Trio not present for what is surely going to be the ultimate battle?”

At that, her eyes darkened and she looked away. He was suddenly extremely intrigued.

“What happened to you anyway?” he asked as he sat down across from her. “Why did you have to leave Hogwarts in the middle of the battle?”

It took a moment for her to turn back to meet his eyes, and when she did, there was a shame in her expression he’d never before seen. 

“I was stupid,” she began quietly, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Ron and I had to... get something from the Chamber of Secrets.” She looked to him when he gasped. “Yes, it exists. We found it second year, and that was where the Basilisk – yes, there really was one of those, too – where the Basilisk was housed and where Harry killed it that same year.”

Draco was tired of being surprised and amazed by Potter’s exploits. He was doubly annoyed that Granger could recount it all like it was merely routine. What the bloody hell had _he_ been doing second year anyway?

“We needed Basilisk fangs as a sort of weapon, to destroy... something important in the fight against You-Know-Who. Ron and I went down there to get them. It was the venom we needed, which was still on the fangs themselves, and using them worked. It was a brilliant idea.”

He waited, but she stopped there, looking off, her gaze haunted. She was startled when he interrupted.

“But?”

“But I was careless. The process of destroying one of these things is difficult. There is very powerful magic trying to keep you from doing so, and it preys on you, attacking your softest spot, your worst fears. I became rather _angry_ , and in finally attacking the thing, I... scratched myself with the fang.” 

She held out her arm, pushing up her sleeve to show a long, thin line running up her forearm. It was faint and silver, looking as though it would heal eventually to nothing. He reached out to touch it and watched goose bumps raise as he dragged one finger down against it. When she shuddered, he looked up to see her eyeing him strangely. She held his gaze for a long moment before pulling her arm gently back.

He cleared his throat and said lowly, “But Basilisk venom is fatal. Nothing can counteract that but Phoenix tears.”

“Yes. A phial of which Madame Pomfrey had on hand in the infirmary. She’d got a steady supply for years from Dumbledore’s familiar. It’s taken a bit to recuperate, and hence...” She made a sweeping gesture to encompass Grimmauld Place and her tenure there.

“That’s it?” he said. She answered with a hard look as if to say that was plenty. “Why haven’t you joined them, then? If nothing’s keeping you here?”

She blushed and began to busy herself with the papers in front of her. “Oh, I’m just not cut-out for it. I had a chance to prove myself under pressure, and at a crucial moment... I wasn’t up to the task.”

“Not up to the task?” Draco was floored. Weren’t Gryffindors supposed to be foolishly brave and addicted to danger or something? “What, with all the things you did through school? All the times you kept Potter alive?”

Her careless shrug was unconvincing. “I was always best at research. I was never very good at Defense Against the Dark Arts anyway,” she said weakly, “and I always had trouble with my Patronus.” 

His eyes widened and his eyebrows shot skyward. “Merlin, Granger, is there anyone harder on you than you?” At her ironic look, he said, “Oh. Fair point. Don’t answer that. What does Potter think about you keeping yourself out of it?”

“He agrees,” she said tightly, looking away. “It’s best if I just stay here. It’s where I can do the most good.”

Draco wasn’t buying it. He’d seen this girl, this woman, withstand more than most with grace and bravery. She’d been battling against Dark forces for years, his own experiences with it dwarfed in comparison. 

“I sincerely doubt that. Potter, Weasel and the rest of them, as foolhardy as they are, know exactly what you’re worth. If they told you to stay back, Granger, it was only to protect you. They almost lost you, and they would want to keep that from happening again.”

“Yes, but that’s just it. They don’t trust me to be able to take care of myself, and they think—” 

Her voice was thick, her eyes glassy, and Draco experienced a split-second of terror, fearing she was about to break down, but she took a deep breath and got a hold of herself. He regarded her seriously, waiting for her to meet his gaze, and when she did, he gave her that expectant look that demanded her attention. It was effective, he knew; he’d learned it from her.

“If I had a chance to go back... to keep safe the people I lost, I would do it, Granger.” A hard, cold ache lodged itself in his chest at the thought, but it was nothing to dwell on. 

Something else struck him then: he suddenly didn’t think Potter and the rest were so stupid after all. Everyone was the same when someone they love was threatened; they’d do anything, anything to protect them, even risk their anger. Hurt feelings were nothing. They could feel free to resent you all they liked, so long as they were alive to do it.

“I know you would, Draco,” she said gently, and he felt a second of discomfort realizing just how well she knew it of him. Then she looked him squarely in the eye, her face completely open and without pretense or defense for the first time. “But it doesn’t matter. They did just fine – are _doing_ just fine without me. The end is coming, Draco. I hear it from the Order, from updates I know they’re closing in, but more than that... I feel it. I’ve spent most of my life fighting with Harry and Ron. It’s who I am. Without that... I’m not sure what I’ll be at the end of all of this.”

“You’ll be alive, Granger,” he said, amazed that she could not see in the mirror what he saw before him. “And since you do everything better than everyone else, I’m betting that will be enough.”

**oOo**

Afterward, he would never be able to pinpoint exactly when or how it began. 

One day Granger was just there, taking a turn about the back garden with him, and it was as simple as that. By some unspoken agreement, they’d come to mark the days together, to run out the clock on what was left of this world. Each day’s dawn was darker and more foreboding than the last. As merely spectators to the end of all things, each found comfort in the other, and they knew without discussion that the time was near. 

That wasn’t up for debate; instead, they spoke of anything and everything else. 

“You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of the function of the position, Granger.”

“But its _function_ is counterintuitive. Your whole purpose is to catch it. Why would it make sense for you to just be waiting around, looking for it, when you can’t even put your hands on it until—”

“There’s strategy involved, you know. We’re not just sitting up there doing nothing.”

“What strategy? You’re just hanging around until enough points have been scored for you to be useful; it’s absurd for you to be there at all. Because all of that diving and faking for the Snitch when there isn’t even enough points racked up on either side to make any difference is just a distraction.”

He took another of the dozen cleansing breaths he’d taken since the beginning of this conversation and reminded himself again that she wasn’t trying to be infuriating, astounding though that may be. “Because that’s the game, Granger. Those points do matter overall.”

“Well, the structure of the game itself makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Really. And do you have any suggestions to improve on a game that’s endured for over a thousand years?” he said through clenched teeth.

Not that she noticed. 

“Yes, actually. I think it makes far more sense if the Seekers and the Snitch enter the game after the Chasers of at least one of the teams have earned at least 200 points, but in the event that each have earned more than...”

She kept talking, but it all got lost in a haze of exasperation. When she finally stopped, he said, “Huh. And what do Potter and Weasley think of these strong _feelings_ you have about Quidditch?”

Suddenly, the Flutterby Bush beside the path commanded all her attention, and her complexion pinked to match its delicate flower.

“Oh, I see,” he said, a laugh building inside his chest. “It’s all enthusiastic banner-waving and cheering when it comes to them, is it?” 

”Well... but you’re just so much easier to _talk_ to, Draco,” she said with a smirk, a quirk of the brow, and a side-eye that made his laugh bubble up and burst forth whole.

He’d never been able to abide anyone who couldn’t abide Quidditch. Of course, this was only really a theory he had, since he didn’t think he’d actually ever known anyone who wasn’t a fan. He marveled at this as he picked up the dinner plate Kreacher left in his room every evening and went in search of Granger. 

From then on, it was only natural that they take their meals together. And everything felt natural after that.

“Have you ever slept with anyone?” she said, her voice echoing in the afternoon air. “I mean sex. ‘Slept with someone’ is such a silly euphemism – I mean, I’ve _slept_ with Ron and Harry, plenty of times. But I haven’t had sex.”

He’d been minding his own business, watching the progress of a Flobberworm in the soil at his feet, when she dropped this on him. He turned to look at her, sitting cross-legged on the bench beside him, and his mouth went dry.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m quite sure sex isn’t just a Muggle thing. Though, to be honest, I’ve heard very little about it in the wizarding world, so I’m not really sure of the culture surrounding it. I should have made more of an effort to talk to my suite-mates,” she said, her brow furrowed, apparently contemplating the secrets of the universe and how they could possibly have been revealed by the likes of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, had she only invested the time.

“Why do you ask?” he replied, doing a rather good job of keeping his voice steady.

“Well, I’m not offering, Draco, just curious,” she said simply. “And really, if we can’t be completely honest with each other here...” 

She held out her arms and gave him an expectant look, and he tried in vain to determine if she was just taking the piss. 

“No, I don’t imagine we’re much different here than in the Muggle world regarding... that, but it’s not necessarily something one just talks about in mixed company.”

She smiled, clearly amused at his reaction. “Since we were telling secrets just the other day—“

“Secrets, which we both swore would go no further,” he said sternly, pointing his finger as emphasis. She batted it away.

“I just thought it would be fun to know something that the rumor-mill could never get their hands on. All of the stories about you were just too wild to be true.”

He arched a brow, feeling a bit more in control of the conversation now. “I thought you said you never talked to Lavender and Parvati?”

 _That_ actually made her blush. “Oh, well... I used to overhear things. It couldn’t be helped.” She paused, eyes widened, waiting. “Well?”

He leaned toward her and spoke confidentially. “You know Seekers, Granger. They may look useless and like they’re not up to anything, but... once they fly into action, that’s the game.”

She looked dumbstruck for a few seconds before a high-pitched peal of laughter burst forth, sparking a fit. Through giggles, she said, “I don’t even know what that means! Does that even mean anything?”

Draco’s whole existence had long since become the distance between bouts of Hermione’s laughter. Without even noticing, the pain that felt like it burned with every breath had faded to something manageable. It was now something that could be named, owned, lived with. 

But it was in the quiet moments, the times where they didn’t need to say much at all that he found what peace really was. It was finding comfort in his own skin; finding that just being himself was good enough to share with someone else; finding the treasures in another person which they’ll only reveal if you’re quiet enough to hear them.

There were no terms in which they could speak of the future, and they did not wish to dwell on the past. The vital present was all they had, and there grew between them a pulsing awareness of each other, a trust that came from shared experience. 

One such time, they were on their hands and knees in the dirt, planting flowers in a row along the edge of the path. She’d found the seeds in the kitchen and was determined to put them to use. He’d long since given up arguing the futility of cultivating anything in this untamed space; what he left unsaid was the sheer pointlessness of trying to grow anything when there was no sun to nourish it. Working side-by-side for hours, hands in the dirt the ‘Muggle way’ at her insistence, he hadn’t realized they’d been working in silence until she spoke.

“You are, you know,” she said. Her head was down when he looked over, but she raised it and met his gaze with a smile. “Easy to talk to.” The blush bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes kept flicking away from his bashfully, but she battled to hold his gaze. Then she shrugged and went back to her hopeful planting.

And just like that, the hollowed-out space inside him was filled with the warmth of her acceptance. This is what had become of his life, this was his home, and he was content.

**oOo**

When one day there was a thickness to the air, a vibration calling out to them over the miles, and a message in the stultifying silence, they couldn’t pretend anymore. 

They were standing against the row of yew hedges looking westward, where the sun was disappearing into a thick, grey haze, hours in advance of the usual summer sunset. 

He was the first to break their embargo on reality. “When did you last hear word?”

“Four days ago,” she said. She didn’t need to elaborate; something was happening, and there was no time for owls. “I let Harry know what we talked about,” she said softly but with that jaunty lift to her chin that dared him to be annoyed. “He’s prepared for you to join him.”

“I think the Ministry might have something to say about that.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not a wanted man, Draco.” Her expression was sincere though, as she said, “It’s known you were forced to do the things you did, and it does mean something that you fought and killed against the other side. There is forgiveness for you, if you want it.”

“Forgiveness?” he asked, turning to face her. “And what else?”

“What else do you want?” she asked. “If you’re ready, you’re free to find out who really is the Master of the Elder Wand.” 

“Who do you think it is?” 

She considered it for a moment. “You-Know-Who is not the Master. I’m sure of it. Between you and Harry...” At this she looked away. “I believe all the Hallows were born out of desire. The legend tells us of the desperation, fear and yearning that led to their creation, and I think they can only respond to those with the same strength of purpose.”

He laughed lightly. “Well, then. We seem to be right back where we started.”

She turned to him, her look encouraging but filled with understanding. “Draco, if you wanted to – if you believed—”

“I’m through with fighting,” he said firmly, and he felt the words even more truly as he spoke. “I don’t have anything left to prove.” And at last it came not from indifference or emptiness; Draco’s soul was finally at ease.

For an age, they stood facing west, as the sky grew darker and the air became stifling in its stillness. The very moment it began, they knew; Draco’s hand found Hermione’s as they breathed in the sudden breeze that blew through the wilds of the garden.

A streak of black shot across the horizon, pulling the darkness on its way from the clouds and the mist, allowing the reds and oranges of the sunset to peek around its edges. All the Dark forces in the land were gathering, either heading to where their master was making his final stand or abandoning their post in defeat. In the last moments of brightness before the day became dusk, the world hung on the brink of hope.

Draco stepped in front of Hermione, turning his back to the setting sun, his voice low over the rising wind. “What do you believe in, Granger?” 

She didn’t have to consider her answer. The fullness of her faith was ever-present. “I believe the darkness cannot endure forever. We, all of us – Muggles, wizards – we never stop moving toward tomorrow. And dawn always follows even the darkest night.”

“Tomorrow sounds good, Granger.” He smiled and kissed her hand. “I can believe in that.”

He was towering over her now, looking down into her upturned face, her flushed cheeks, darkened eyes, and that inviting mouth. Reaching out to brush a curl away from her forehead, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her brow. She slid her hand from his, and he was pulling back to look at her when he felt two confident hands on either side of his jaw. Hermione pulled him to her as she lifted on her toes, and warmth exploded in Draco’s chest as her lips met his.

A small but noisy part of him couldn’t help feeling annoyed, though. He was _going_ to kiss her. But typical Granger, she had to go and ruin it all by being her usual impatient—

Then she opened her mouth under his, a deep sigh coming from her throat, and he stopped caring.

The wind shifted, picking up, blowing away the stale remnants of yesterday. Within minutes, it was howling around them as they clung together, caught in their embrace, stronger together against the elements than they’d ever been alone. The whipping wind preceded a great moaning before the sky opened up, and a hard, driving rain began to fall. 

They sought shelter in the house that had been their sanctuary and their prison. Heading for the front parlor and the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced eastward, Draco and Hermione watched through the night as the world was washed clean. Looking expectantly into tomorrow, they saw the very moment when the clouds parted, ushering in the rising sun, bright and insistent against the morning mist. 

As they saw life dawn anew on all of the houses of Grimmauld Place, Draco led the way to the front door. The taunts of Wallburga Black rang hollow as they shut the door against her. They stood on the front step, poised on the edge of the world, and the promise of the future lay beyond. 

Hands clasped, they descended the stairs and stepped confidently into the sunlight.

**~ finis ~**

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the amazing fan art made by hey_am for this story at: [Facing Eastward by hey_am](http://2firstnames.tumblr.com/post/21500168366/now-having-literally-walked-in-his-shoes-through) It's amazing and I'm so blown-away by it!


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